Pourquoi?
by Everine
Summary: A Paris street rat is deeply touched by her encounter with Inspector Javert.


"Mireille! Mireille?" A young girl's voice entered my reverie, scattering my thoughts.  
  
"Élise? What is it?"  
  
"There you are! I've been looking everywhere!"  
  
I laughed. "You know I'm always here!" I said, looking out over the grey waters of the Seine. They were more turbulent than usual - the heavy June rain had swelled the river until it was many feet above its normal level.  
  
"Don't make fun. I don't always know where you are, and you're never home!" I could see the hurt in my sister's eyes and looked away. It was true, but the winding streets of Paris were a convenient escape from the misery of our tiny home. "Anyway, Maman wants you - Thierry has gotten into trouble again." I wasn't surprised. Thierry took after our father.  
  
"Very well." I stood, brushing off my skirt, and followed Élise to our garret.  
  
Maman's pale face greeted me at the door. "Ma chère, Élise has told you?" I nodded. "He got into a fist fight with some shopkeeper. He was arrested, and the police are demanding a fine of fifteen francs!" Our mother's tired voice was scarcely above a whisper, and a fresh bruise had formed on her cheekbone, but she was still beautiful. Élise was the very picture of her. I was plain, but glad of it. Beauty in the bourgeoisie may be a blessing, but beauty and poverty do not mix well.  
  
"Fifteen francs?" I repeated. "For a fist fight?"  
  
"Javert." In one word, Élise answered all my questions. Everyone in this quarter knew him - the incorruptible Inspector who followed the Law, obsessively, to the letter. Luckily for me, I'd only seen him from a distance.  
  
But we did not have the money. Any that we earned was snatched by my father for alcohol to smooth the corners of his tortured world. So we'd have to beg. I suppose I was too proud for my own good, but I detested charity. I did not need to be reminded that I had a drunk for a father and trembling shadow of a mother. It was all I could do to hold out a cap to the passersby - Élise, so pretty and charming, did most of the work.  
  
Resignedly, I took my sister's hand and walked to the square. As we took our place beside a fountain, a group of students galloped past, starry- eyed, waving a red flag. Shouts filled the air - "Vive le peuple! Vive la république!" I tugged at the sleeve of one of the young men.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"A revolution!" he replied and, shaking me off, ran to catch up with his friends. I sighed. Liberty, equality, fraternity.those were ideals that seemed far out of France's reach. Those crazy students - why did they bother?  
  
An old man walking with a young lady (his daughter?) caught my eye. I nudged my sister.  
  
"M'sieur, please, a few sous for our brother?" The young lady looked up at the man. They strolled over, the man reaching for his purse.  
  
"What has happened to your brother, dear?" asked the lady. She had kind eyes.  
  
"He has been imprisoned, and the police want fifteen francs for his release," answered Élise.  
  
"Please, Mam'selle, we will starve without the money he brings. He was in a fight, but it was not his fault, Mam'selle, another man hit my poor sister and he was defending her," I added. The lie was so ironic that I had to force back a smile.  
  
"Papa?"  
  
"Of course, Cosette." The old man drew a few coins from his purse and put them in Élise's open hand.  
  
"God bless you, good M'sieur!" my sister said sweetly. "And you also, Mam'selle!" They smiled, nodded, and continued their walk. I knelt down beside Élise, who stood gazing open-mouthed at the twenty francs in her hand. It was luck, surely, but I had given up being glad. It was always harder when darkness came again if one allowed oneself too much sunlight. I took the money and sent Élise home with the extra five francs.  
  
I knew the way to the Prefecture well by now. I was always the one sent to pay the fines for the crimes of my father and brother. Élise was too young, being only nine, and Maman was too frail.  
  
I was admitted by a young officer. "For the release of Thierry Desmarteaux, s'il vous plaît?" A sharp nod, and I was led down a hall and into a small office.  
  
"Inspector." The officer bowed slightly and was gone. I looked about. The room was immaculate, furnished sparsely. A Bible and a copy of the Law sat on a wide desk, along with a few crisp sheets of paper and a thin black pen.  
  
"Mademoiselle Desmarteaux?" The clipped, precise voice startled me, and I looked up from the desktop to the face above it.  
  
I found myself looking into the most intense eyes I had ever known. Small and grey, they seemed to hold a million emotions: harshness, anger, determination, bitterness.and beneath it all, an incomparable sadness. I realized they were staring at me and came to my senses.  
  
"Pardon, Inspector. Oui, I am Mireille Desmarteaux, the sister of Thierry Desmarteaux, and I have come with the money for his release. Fifteen francs, M'sieur - "  
  
"Inspector. Inspector Javert."  
  
"Bien sûr, Inspector. Excusez-moi." He nodded, and I managed to return my eyes to his. Strange, they were blank now, devoid of all feeling. Realizing what he wanted, I fumbled in my pocket and withdrew the fifteen francs. I laid them on the desk.  
  
"My brother, Inspector, if you please?" He cleared his throat.  
  
"Follow me, Mam'selle." I still wasn't used to being addressed by such a formal title. Street rats were not normally referred to as "Mademoiselle".  
  
I was in such a daze that we were at Thierry's cell before I realized Javert hadn't even looked at the money.  
  
* * *  
  
I stayed up later than usual that night, wandering the streets of Paris. Faint sounds of gunshots echoed through the streets. Those deranged revolutionaries had built a barricade and were dying - dying for a dream they would never see come true. Idealism leads only to disappointment. But I had learned early not to concern myself with other peoples' lives, and I banished all thoughts from my head.  
  
All save one. Try as I might, the memory of Javert's eyes could not be put aside.  
  
Hours stretched by, and I found my way, as I often did, to the Seine. I paused, looking up. A solitary dark figure stood poised by the rail of the bridge. The profile was somehow familiar, and I approached, curious.  
  
It was Javert.  
  
Unaware of my presence, he faced the stars and slowly removed his hat. Setting it down, he carefully climbed over the rail. The waters swirled beneath him, but he never took his eyes from the sky. Horror swept over me as I realized what he was doing.  
  
"Javert!"  
  
His eyes held mine, and in them stars met swirling water. "Pourquoi?" he whispered, not entirely to me. And jumped.  
  
For no reason save that I had to, I knelt by the banks of the Seine and wept for a man who could not understand the world and a world that did not understand this man.  
  
Pourquoi?  
  
Why? 


End file.
